


But Three's a Crowd

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3514376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At Constance and d'Artagnan's wedding, Athos finds himself without a place to spend the night rather suddenly - but thankfully Porthos and Aramis are there to offer their room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Three's a Crowd

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sammywhatammy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammywhatammy/gifts).



> Birthday fic for Sammy! :D I decided to gift her some Musketeers OT3 and I hope she appreciates my sacrifice as I attempt to, yet again, write from Athos' POV with possibly limited success. I am posting it early, as her actual birthday isn't for a couple weeks yet, but just so she can read it at her leisure in the midst of moving and whatnot. ANYWAY. Hope you enjoy! ♥ 
> 
> Also note that there are other pairings mentioned and other characters, but since they don't make a huge appearance in the fic beyond mentions, I didn't list them in the tags.

After hours of wedding bliss and with the reception finally winding down, Athos still isn’t entirely sure where he’s going to be sleeping tonight. Not for lack of organization, of course. He knows where he’s _supposed_ to be sleeping. Constance’s extensive after-wedding plans were quite extreme and thorough, after all. 

(He remembers d’Artagnan giving him a wide-eyed stare one day in the early months of the wedding planning, the groom-to-be gesturing in quiet horror at Constance’s multiple notebooks – trying to save Athos from the mistake of asking _so how are the wedding plans going?_ before it was too late. After an hour of being knee-deep in swatches of fabric and a pro and con list of almond cake, Athos remembers wishing he’d listened.)

As it stands, Ninon is dragging Athos’ wedding roommate away, presumably towards Athos’ room. She’d insinuated that he’d be welcome to join the two of them, should the need strike him, but Athos knows that will involve a great deal more than sleeping. (“The beds here are rather large, aren’t they?” had been her exact words, as Athos recalls.) There’s the possibility that Athos could sleep in the same room as Ninon’s waylaid roommate, but he’s unsure where or who she even is. Or whether she’d even want another man in the room with her. Especially Athos of all people. 

If it were a hotel, he’d just go and get another room, but this isn’t a hotel – it’s his own very fancy, very expansive mansion left in the family and offered to the bride and groom as a wedding venue – because what else was he going to do with this place other than try to make some good memories over the bad? And Athos knows backwards and forwards all the actual sleeping rooms and all the potential sleeping rooms and it’s looking more and more likely that he’ll be sleeping in the wine cellar. Because while it _is_ his very fancy and very expansive mansion, and while it may be very large, it is also nonetheless finite in its available space for guests – and the rooms are booked and double-booked. Possibly triple-booked. Which, with no disrespect meant towards the bride and groom, is actually rather surprising to Athos considering he hadn’t really realized Constance and d’Artagnan knew so many people. Certainly more people than Athos has ever known, in the end – or cared to know. 

Constance and d’Artagnan are still swaying on the dancing floor like they belong there. Constance is laughing about something, her face bright and happy, hair curled gently around her face as she smiles up at d’Artagnan – who looks at her like she’s the stars and the sun and the moon all rolled into one and he’s the luckiest to be holding her here. Their fingers are interlaced together, pressed up to d’Artagnan’s chest over his heart, his other arm curled tight around her waist and keeping her close. They paint a beautiful picture, and it’s clear in both their eyes that no one else in the world exists in that moment. It’s a beautiful look they share and Athos has to glance away, because d’Artagnan is his best friend and he doesn’t want to feel that twist in his gut seeing them like that. Not when he’s the best man. Not when he’s desperately trying to avoid the ridiculous movie cliché he can’t quite shake. But it’s there, and it’s painful, and he’s just glad that his own wedding so long ago didn’t take place here because then the memories really would be too dragging. But he makes himself not think of her. 

Around the room, people are getting ready for bed. Athos sits down on the edge of the room in a moody, uncertain silence. He’s prepared to stay like that until a reasonable solution presents itself when he feels a tap on his shoulder. When he twists around to look, Porthos is standing there, grinning at him and looking devastatingly handsome in his suit and bowtie, as always. His eyes are always soft and it always leaves Athos feeling adrift – should he ever allow himself to indulge in the thought. He never does. He swallows once and drinks Porthos in. 

“Not dancing?” Porthos teases and his smile lights up his face. 

“No, thank you,” Athos says, quiet but quick, just in case Porthos gets the idea to ask him himself. Porthos shrugs and downs his little flute of champagne in a way that probably shouldn’t be charming – but then Porthos manages to be charming in most things. 

He glances behind Porthos to find that Aramis is there, too, of course. As if he could be anywhere else but glued to Porthos’ side. He’s looking skillfully disheveled, as always. He’s been growing his hair out and while it suits him, Athos suspects that he’s mostly growing it out for the sake of Porthos mushing it up for him. He’s seen Porthos do so almost all evening. It’s curling at the collar in a frankly distracting way. 

His tie is crooked. That explains the self-satisfied smiles on the both of them. Athos glances down, his hands curled into small fists against his legs. 

It’s not surprising that Aramis should be there beside Porthos. The two of them have always been attached at the hip since the moment they met – long before Athos ever knew them – and nowadays it’s become even worse with their relationship so new. (Relatively speaking. It isn’t as if they haven’t been dating without quite realizing for well over a decade now. Now, at least, it’s official.) 

“I’m sure you’d be quite the sight dancing the night away,” Aramis says in his usual lilt, where it could easily be a compliment and yet Athos always feels he’s being teased instead. 

“You alright?” Porthos then asks, noticing Athos’ tight expression. He sits down beside him and bumps his elbow to his gently. Athos nods slightly. Porthos then presses to him from shoulder down to hip in a way that’s always comforted Athos, to have that quiet support – because how many times in university was it Porthos who brought him home to his room after a night of terrible decisions? – and Athos leans against him, almost letting his head drop down onto Porthos’ shoulder before he restrains himself. 

But he remembers Aramis and glances up at him – searching for any signs of jealousy. Not yet, at least, which isn’t to say it won’t happen. Over the years he’s known Aramis and seen him in his various relationships, his jealousy was always difficult to conceal, least of all to Porthos and Athos who could read him like a book. Aramis’ jealousy towards Porthos had always been the most obvious, too – leaving him frowning, all laughter gone from his eyes. Looking at Aramis now, though, he _is_ amused – and affectionate as he looks at Porthos, who glances at him before turning his attention back towards Athos, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. 

“I’m fine,” Athos says, comforted by the arm around him despite himself. “… It appears I’ve been relocated.” 

“Constance would hardly do a last minute switch like that,” Aramis laughs. 

“By Ninon,” Athos hints, not wanting to actually say it.

Thankfully it seems Aramis gets the implication because his face is lighting up in a surprised delight. “Athos! Were you sexiled?” 

Athos doesn’t dignify that with a response but Porthos and Aramis exchange a perfectly delighted look, Porthos’ face crinkling up in his effort to hold back a laugh and Aramis just straight-up laughing with no concern for Athos’ predicament. As is his way. 

“It’s your house,” Aramis teases. “Can’t you get a room for yourself?” 

“No,” Athos says, trying to not let his voice drip with his distaste. “Every room is full.” 

“Well, where’s your old room? I think you’d take precedence over the guests, considering,” Porthos says, squeezing his shoulder. His hand is big and warm against his tensed shoulder, and Athos almost relaxes. 

Athos sighs. “ _You’re_ staying in my old room.”

Porthos and Aramis pause at that and Athos says nothing, pursing his lips together. Given it was his childhood home, Constance and d’Artagnan had enlisted his help months ago to sort out where everyone should stay. Athos had chosen the modest option for himself, a little guest room tucked away in the eastern wing, and given Constance and d’Artagnan his old parents’ room, the most elaborate and largest suite by far. For his old room, possibly the second best room in the house, he’d assigned Porthos and Aramis to it, figuring they deserved the best and knowing historically how fussy Aramis could be about beds and bathrooms. He hadn’t exactly planned on revealing as much, of course, and upon saying it, he feels a bit foolish for his sentimentality. 

“Well that settles it,” Aramis clucks. “You’ll stay with us.” He looks at Porthos, his expression gentling when he asks, “That’s fine, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Porthos says without any hesitation. 

Just in time for Athos to say, “Of course not.” He shakes his head when they both frown in unison, his back going rigid beneath Porthos’ hand. He stands from his chair, or more to get away from Porthos’ hold. He clears his throat. “I appreciate you thinking of me, but I’d be invading your privacy.” 

Porthos snorts as Aramis says, “Athos, you have a king-sized bed. It’s ridiculous. You’d hardly be imposing on your own room.” 

Athos purses his lips more and says nothing, mostly because he knows very well how he’d be invading on their privacy. He can remember quite a few unlocked doors in university when the two of them were fooling around as roommates and Athos had the misfortune of walking in. He’d spent weeks unable to get the image of the two of them naked out of his mind – much less naked and pressed together. Even less with them naked, pressed together, and _moaning_. Loudly. Shamelessly. He hadn’t been able to look them in the eye for days. Even then they claimed he wasn’t imposing but he’d always been sure to knock forever after. He very pointedly does not envision the two of them having sex in his bed now, now that they’re older and matured and grown fully into their bodies and now fill out their suits in horribly distracting ways. He doesn’t want to consider whether they’ve already slept together in his old room – but it’s Porthos and Aramis. Of course they have. 

“I must insist,” Athos says.

“Oh, don’t get all proper,” Porthos laughs. “Come on.”

“I’ll be imposing…”

Porthos and Aramis exchange a weighted smile, some kind of quiet understanding passing between them. Athos is used to seeing the look, although perhaps not this profound. 

“I think we can survive not having sex for one day,” Porthos tuts. Aramis makes an overly dramatic sigh and flops down over the back of Porthos’ chair, draping his arms over his shoulders. He props his chin on the top of his head and smiles at Athos in a downright impish way. 

Aramis sighs out, “Or, one more time today, at least.” Porthos barks out a sharp laugh beneath Aramis’ chin and Aramis just grins at Athos, devilish. “Don’t pretend you don’t know our sleeping habits, either,” Aramis says with that same rather disarming smile. “You know just where to kick Porthos to get him to stop snoring. I still haven’t mastered that.”

“That’s because you like my snoring,” Porthos reminds him, tipping his head back to grin at him. Aramis’ smile is still playful as he leans down and kisses his forehead in agreement. 

Athos should say no. He thinks of the wine cellar again. It’ll be nice and cool down there, a nice counter-point to the summer heat that’s permeated all weekend long. But then, it does get cold in the house at night, drafty and large as it is. He should say no, if only because he _knows_ how weddings affect couples, and he knows how it’ll affect Porthos and Aramis, too, how it’s _already_ affecting them. Porthos and Aramis, who have done nothing but make eyes at each other the entire wedding, dancing overly close, kissing when they think no one is looking – or when they think someone is and delighting in the scandal of it – and whispering into one another’s ears at any passing interval. 

Although, the idea of spending the night with the two of them after so long is an appealing one, too – it reminds him a little of university, of spending long nights doing nothing but roaming the campus, or whispering into the wee hours of the morning, or unraveling little secrets about each other. They haven’t had that since university, since before Athos’ misguided marriage and subsequent divorce, and the few years of distance he’d put between them for his own sake, until they dragged him back out again, until he met d’Artagnan and understood things a little better about himself, if only through his eyes. Porthos and Aramis’ couple-ness has never bothered him. He’s happy for them. Truthfully, he hardly notices it anymore if only because, despite their relationship being ‘new’, the two of them have revolved around one another since they met in secondary school. It was only a matter of time before they realized the friends-with-benefits thing wasn’t what they really wanted. He’s always considered himself lucky to be their friends, has always considered himself lucky that they should think of him at all when they have each other.

He thinks back to those days in university, when it was just the three of them, before they met d’Artagnan and before Constance became a solid friend, and the thought of spending the night with them is too tempting to resist – and both Porthos and Aramis seem just as happy to have Athos there with them, and he’s so damn tired and emotionally exhausted after a long, extensive wedding being happy for his best friend and dear friend. He’s exhausted after aggressively _not_ thinking about the past and he’s wearing the entirely wrong shoes that pinch at his toes. Aramis is smiling at Porthos much like Constance smiled at d’Artagnan all evening and it’s beautiful but painful. But he also doesn’t want to look away from either of them. 

In a universe in which d’Artagnan and Constance are bright and shining, almost like the sun, Porthos and Aramis are two binary stars revolving around one center point of gravity between them, just as bright and unrelenting. (And he quietly thinks to himself how terribly they’d both laugh at the terrible poetry of it all, but perhaps Constance and d’Artagnan’s vows to each other had affected him, too.) 

“Fine,” he says, because he’s too tired to really resist against them and they’ve always known him better than most. And they’re horribly stubborn when they want to be. 

“Want to head up now?” Porthos asks, likely to corral him up there before Athos can change his mind. Porthos has applied this tactic for years, and even though Athos can recognize it for what it is, he still relents to it and nods his head. 

“Please,” he says. 

Aramis kisses Porthos’ temple and shoos them along. “You two go on ahead. I have to say goodnight to Anne and that devilishly handsome young man she’s dancing with.” 

Athos glances over towards where Aramis is looking and sees Anne dancing with her and Aramis’ very sleepy son, all blonde hair and droopy eyes, clinging to her very pretty maid-of-honor dress. Athos nods as Porthos stands, hand on his back again to lead him towards the grand staircase that will take them upstairs. Before leaving, Porthos leans in and gives Aramis a quick kiss. Aramis smiles and bumps his nose to his and Athos averts his eyes, leaving them to their moment. 

“Say goodnight to them from us,” Porthos says, lips quirked into a small smile meant only for Aramis. Aramis nods. They stay like that for a moment longer before Aramis turns and makes his way over towards Anne, beaming at her and reaching up to fix his hair as if there could ever be hope for his disheveled mop. 

Athos lingers for a moment, watching the way Aramis’ face lights up as he bends down to scoop up his young son, speaking in a low voice to Anne so they don’t disturb where Constance and d’Artagnan are still dancing nearby. Athos watches the way Aramis’ face goes soft as he looks at Anne, seems to melt into her as he gives her a small kiss, interrupted only by a loud noise of protest from his son. Anne smiles at him, sweet and reserved, but clearly happy, and their son squirms in Aramis’ arms until Aramis nuzzles into his hair and kisses his temple instead, lavishing him with the attention Aramis always has in reserve for his son. Athos has to look away because something squeezes tight inside of his chest. 

Athos catches d’Artagnan’s eye and nods a little goodbye, hoping he’ll understand the need to just go to sleep, not wanting to intrude on their marital bliss. Not wanting to be that friend – the one who’s happy, unspeakably happy for them, but also alone and maybe a touch bitter. He’s working on it and he knows d’Artagnan would understand, but it’s still difficult to watch the way they revolve around each other, the way d’Artagnan’s face goes tender as he looks at Constance. The way Constance smiles at him with utter and complete happiness. 

He thought he had that once. 

He never will again. 

Porthos catches where Athos is looking, between the newlyweds and Aramis and Anne, and he laughs a little as he says, “They have to head out tonight, but Aramis is visiting them on Monday.” Athos hadn’t wondered but he’s too polite to interrupt, not when Porthos sounds fond like that. “It’s too bad they don’t have a room to give you, huh? Now you’re actually stuck with us.” 

Porthos laughs again and Athos manages a weak little smile. He tries to feed off of Porthos’ laughter, his smile – everything about him, bright and warm. Porthos is usually always happy, and especially at weddings – Athos saw him getting teary-eyed with a watery smile during the ceremony, after all. 

“Do you need to borrow something to sleep in?” Porthos asks. 

“I believe so,” Athos sighs. They climb the staircase. “I’m sure Ninon’s progressed well beyond foreplay at this point and my presence would only discourage her – or encourage her in a way I’d rather avoid.”

Porthos cracks up, grinning at him – which isn’t fully unexpected, as Porthos has always reacted positively to Athos’ particular brand of dryness. Something twists up inside of him and he steadily ignores it. 

Athos leads the way towards Porthos and Aramis’ room, knowing the route through the long hallways by heart at this point, engraved there no matter how badly he wishes it wasn’t. Being back in his childhood home brings with it a mixture of dread and melancholy, a painful kind of nostalgia in the wake of the loss his family has suffered. Still, he’s glad that it can be used for something joyous this weekend, and d’Artagnan and Constance deserve as much happiness as they can get. 

Porthos leans forward and opens the door to Athos’ old room, and Athos breathes out when he steps inside. It’s strangely more lived-in now than it ever was in all the years Athos used it, and there are signs all over the room of Porthos and Aramis’ weekend stay. Their suitcases are open and clothes are tossed around, the bed is unmade and there are a few towels on the floor of the bathroom from what Athos can see spying through the open door. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t even assign yourself your own room,” Porthos clucks as he shuts the door behind them. He toes off his shoes and Athos is quick to follow the suggestion, letting out a blissful little sigh as he gets his pinched toes free of the god-awful dress shoes. He feels unsteady, not quite tipsy since, thankfully, his usual choice of wine wasn’t as readily available at the wedding as perhaps his thirst wished. (He secretly thinks that was intentional on Constance and d’Artagnan’s parts.) 

“I felt you two would be comfortable here,” Athos says, prim and quiet, staring down at his feet as he unrolls his socks just so Porthos won’t see his expression. “You’d certainly get more use out of the bed than I would.”

Porthos snorts, and when Athos glances up at him, his expression is soft and warm – fond. Athos has to look away again, stuffs his socks into his shoes and tucks them under the chair he sits on. He sheds his jacket and drapes it delicately over the back of the chair before glancing again at Porthos. 

Athos clears his throat, belatedly realizing that they’ve both descended into a relatively awkward silence. Or at least it feels that way to him. Porthos gives him a crooked smile. 

“… Excuse me,” Athos murmurs and makes his way to the bathroom to clean up. The bathroom is small, and just as he remembers it – aside from the fact that Porthos and Aramis have made themselves at home in here, too. Both of them are messy – they always have been, really, and it works that it always looks like a hurricane tore through their living spaces. There are a few bottles of cologne lining the sink that all belong to Aramis, as well as some hair products. Save for the homemade, unlabeled tub of what Athos recognizes as Porthos’ blend of herbal butter and oils for his hair, every other bottle of hair product belongs to Aramis. There’s two toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste, and a plethora of used towels littering the floor. There’s a box of condoms behind the mirror cabinet that Athos _knows_ isn’t left over from his time here and he chooses to ignore that as he washes his face, running his hands firmly down his face in an attempt to both wake himself up and calm himself down. 

Athos meets his eyes in the mirror for a moment, wets a washcloth and scrubs at his face some more. He feels tendered, and not in a necessarily pleasant way. He’s happy for d’Artagnan and Constance. And he’s genuinely happy for Porthos and Aramis, as well. But weddings always draw the melancholy out of him – and especially coupled with a house that holds many memories, most of which are painful. 

He finishes washing his face and removes his belt and tugs at his bowtie until it comes loose. He undoes the top few buttons of his shirt and already that’s enough to make him breathe better. He already feels less like a stuffy, would-be perfect son – and more like himself again. Flawed and imperfect – but himself. 

He takes a few deep breaths and by the time he feels ready to leave the bathroom, he can hear Porthos speaking with Aramis – which means he’s finished with his goodnights to Anne and their son. Athos lingers in the bathroom, tracing his big toe over the grout between the bathroom tiles, not wanting to interrupt them. He can’t make out the words, but he waits until he can hear a lull in the conversation before he exits the bathroom. 

Aramis is fiddling with Porthos’ bowtie, trying to get it undone for him but it seems to Athos that he’s simply using the opportunity to get into Porthos’ personal space with little protest. Not that Athos can imagine Porthos would protest, bowtie or no. It’s a farce, really, but then the two of them have always taken any excuse to get into one another’s space. 

Aramis turns around and smiles at Athos the second he comes back through the door. His fingers are still twisted up in Porthos’ knotted up bowtie and it feels like an embarrassingly intimate moment.

“Ah, there you are,” Aramis says, beaming at him, and he looks so sincerely happy to see him that Athos has to pause and process that someone should be happy to see him – he’s still not used to it, even after all these years. Aramis tilts his head. “Feeling better?”

“I’m fine – have been all evening,” Athos protests, but sees the way Porthos and Aramis exchange a look and knows that they’ve noticed his mood droop throughout the night. He can almost be embarrassed about it, but part of him is pleased that they’d have clued into him so fully. 

“Come on,” Porthos says, and squats down to start digging through his bag for something for Athos to wear to sleep. 

What he comes up with is a pair of pajama pants with ducks on them. Athos stares at them, a little uncertain and unwilling to believe that Porthos is serious. Aramis is laughing behind him, though, and Athos frowns and folds his hands behind his back. 

“You’ll look cute,” Aramis argues and Porthos is grinning, but looking down to dig through his clothes again for another pair. Athos hopes there _is_ another pair, considering he knows that Aramis prefers to sleep naked, and Porthos usually only in a pair of boxer-briefs, if that, considering who he’s dating. That he should have multiple pairs of sleeping bottoms seems unlikely. He’ll wear the ducks if he must, but he’d prefer not to. 

“Wear Aramis’, then, and Aramis can wear these,” Porthos says, and tosses the duck pajamas at Aramis, who doesn’t seem the least bit protesting. Porthos fishes out a – blessedly – plaid pair of bottoms and offers them to Athos, who takes them gratefully. 

“Well,” Aramis says from behind Porthos as he starts tugging off his belt. “I am the cute one, so I might as well have the cute pair.” 

“Spoken like a true narcissist,” Porthos sighs, wearing that look he gets when he thinks Aramis is being stupid but also finds him unbearably cute, too. 

“You love it,” Aramis protests, and starts to undress right there. Athos averts his eyes as Aramis pulls the buttons free from the buttonholes and then slips off his trousers, sliding into the duck pajamas easily. He practically drowns in them, since they’re Porthos’ size and Athos remembers the width or his thighs from a few misplaced glances in locker rooms and the aforementioned walk into the unlocked dorm room. Not that he’s letting himself think about it. 

He clears his throat and crosses to the bathroom again, keeping on his undershirt but slipping into the plaid pajama bottoms as quickly as he can once behind the door. He shivers a little when his bare feet hit the tiled floor, and he sighs out, feeling flushed and unsettled despite having no real source for any anxiety. It’s just the night in general. It’s just Porthos and Aramis being so close, so intimate, so gentle and warm and everything he knows he can never have. 

He sighs out again, and just keeps doing it, taking in gulping breaths, twists his fingers up in the drawstring of the pants, and ties them off with a thoughtful frown. They’re Aramis’ and thus have that vague smell of cologne to them. They’re soft and well-worn, and somehow strangely comforting to wear, even if he’s half-expecting some kind of lewd, teasing comment from Aramis once he steps out again wearing them. 

When he exits the bathroom once more, Porthos and Aramis are dressed for bed and standing closer to each other than they were before. Aramis is wearing the ducks and Porthos has on a pair of sweatpants he likely unearthed from the very bottom of his suitcase. Aramis is looking slightly flushed and smiling stupidly, the bowtie twisted up in his hands. Which means they were likely just kissing and Athos, yet again, is interrupting and intruding on their private and intimidate moments. His heart jogs up in his chest and stutters once before he just takes a deep, steadying breath. 

“It was a nice wedding, wasn’t it?” Porthos asks, by way of making conversation, when he spots Athos there. Athos nods absently as he sits down on the edge of his bed, feeling it’ll swallow him whole, feeling that it’s all strangely foreign despite being his own, despite knowing every nook and cranny to this room. 

“Yes,” Athos says, and finds that he means it, despite his own secret (or perhaps not so secret) melancholy. “They were both… glowing.” 

Aramis and Porthos both smile, which means they think Athos is being cute, and so Athos sighs out, a deep, heaving sigh, and looks away. He smoothes his hand out over a wrinkle in the bed’s duvet and swallows thickly. He still feels a lingering sense of nervousness despite all his best efforts. 

When he looks up again, Porthos and Aramis are still watching him. 

“I’m fine,” he says, because even if they won’t ask, he knows they’re worried – knows they don’t really talk about the two years where Athos was married and self-isolating, knows that they long since forgave him for withdrawing because he _did_ come back again – and knows that they won’t press it, knows they’ll wait for him to offer any kind of tidbit, knows that they know what he’s thinking about – what a wedding is doing to him. It’s really through d’Artagnan’s efforts that he was ever able to open up about his failed marriage at all, ever able to actually reach out to his two university friends after so long, after feeling he’d burned every bridge and every good thing in his life. And through it all, he really can’t forget her. That, maybe, is the worst part. 

But, really, he is fine. (Or, at least, he’s getting better. He will be alright. He has to believe that.)

“I’m happy for them,” he says, quietly. “They deserve to be happy.”

Considering the hardship that Constance had to go through in order to get to this day, in order to be happy and married to d’Artagnan, he could never, ever begrudge them their happiness – even if perhaps a small, twisted part of him is jealous. Even if a small, twisted part of him is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for one of them or both of them to end up miserable and alone. But not every marriage is his own. Constance and d’Artagnan are wonderful, beautiful, perfect for each other. They’re proof that not all relationships are doomed to fail.

“They really were lovely,” Aramis sighs, ever the romantic, and he looks at Porthos for a long moment before he glances down, smiling a small smile to himself. Athos’ heart lodges in his throat at such a mundane look, but it feels weighted. The moment passes, however, and soon enough Aramis is looking back at Athos – with a smile all the same, but a touch teasing. “I think I might have seen you get misty-eyed, my friend.” 

Athos makes a soft, protesting sound. “You’re thinking of Porthos.” 

Porthos looks up from where he’s fishing out a few more blankets from the closet, just in case the drafty mansion gets cold in the night, despite the summer heat, and he grins – embarrassed, perhaps, but unselfconscious. 

“I only cried because d’Artagnan cried first,” he says, laughing, and tossing the extra blankets and a few pillows onto the bed. “When Constance was saying her vows, his smile got all wobbly. It was cute.” 

Porthos is setting out to flutter the blankets onto the bed, but Aramis flops dramatically into the center of it instead and thus disrupts all Porthos’ progress. Aramis’ foot taps against Athos’ thigh, where he still sits towards the end of the king-sized bed, and Athos looks down, breathing out as steadily as he can manage. 

“Hey,” Porthos protests, but there’s no bite to it, and he’s grinning. 

“Mmm,” Aramis sighs, rolling onto his back and batting his eyelashes at the both of them. “Tuck me in?” 

“I’ll tuck you in somewhere,” Porthos mock-growls, and tosses a pillow onto his head before turning back towards Athos. “You going to be okay if all three of us are in this thing? I don’t mind being on the floor, if you two want the mattress.”

“He’s so noble, our lovely Porthos,” Aramis sighs from beneath the pillow, before he tucks it beneath his head – all the better to remain flopped on the bed and look at the two of them before him. “You’re not getting _me_ out of this bed.” 

“I’m fine,” Athos says, as light as he can manage, dissuading any nobleness (or lack thereof) from both parties. “It’s large enough the three of us should fit comfortably.”

Certainly better than some days back in university where Aramis was drunk and tried to squeeze into the much, much smaller beds at campus with one or both of them – needy drunk that he is. 

Aramis beckons for Athos to lie up beside him, tugging him into the middle when Athos tries to go for the edge of the mattress. 

“Come on, we know how cold you get at night, you might as well be in the middle. Even if it’s been horribly hot the last few days. It gets chilly in this room as I’m sure you know.” Aramis twists around to beam at Porthos and adds, “Porthos is like a furnace. It’s great.” 

Athos looks at Porthos, too, waiting for some kind of objection to him being in the middle, to some kind of objection over his boyfriend having his hands all over Athos – but Porthos is just smiling fondly at the two of them and Athos loses his ability to say anything at all, really. 

“He calls me a teddy bear,” Porthos offers, as if that makes it any better. 

“You are,” Aramis agrees. 

Athos almost objects, but since neither Porthos nor Aramis are objecting in any way, he sighs and resigns himself to his fate – and lets Aramis tug him in under the blankets and positions him in the center of the bed. When it was his bed once, he’d always slept in the center and felt like he was drowning in all the sheets and blankets, but it feels more at ease now, to have both Aramis and Porthos on either side of him. 

“Comfortable?” Porthos asks once Athos is settled, and Aramis is right – he is a furnace. But Aramis is pleasantly warm at his other side, too. 

“Yes,” Athos says, not letting himself sound begrudging. 

Porthos is watching him with that same soft look on his face before he turns over and shuts the light off – and they’re in darkness. 

Athos isn’t necessarily uncomfortable – in fact, he feels more at ease in this moment than he has all evening – if just feeling a touch out of place. Feeling that they’d be happier pressed together, with him on the outside. Feeling that they’d certainly be happier if they could ride out the happiness of a wedding together, pressed together and whispering together, behaving as all happy couples do in the face of a happy wedding. 

Aramis pulls him a little closer, always so easy with his touch, and they’re aligned together, Aramis practically spooning up to him – torsos and legs touching. Athos glances at Porthos, still waiting for the protest that isn’t coming and as his eyes adjust to the dark with the help of moonlight touching at the window through the curtains. He can see that Porthos is smiling gently still – that slow, secret smile of his that always used to melt him to jelly during university. 

Aramis continues to spoon up to him and Porthos still isn’t protesting. Aramis is affectionate, always has been, but he’s rarely so affectionate with him. Especially if Porthos is right there. 

He looks at Porthos, somewhat helplessly. Instead of saving him from this, Porthos just rolls in closer, pressing to his chest as Aramis spoons to his back. There’s a hand on his hip before he can quite second-guess it and it’s heavy and warm and undoubtedly Porthos’. 

“… What?” Athos asks because he isn’t sure what else to say. He can feel Aramis’ breath against the back of his neck and he feels prickly all over because of it, uncertain. He looks up at Porthos once again, hoping he’ll understand the question even if he can’t properly articulate it. 

“Is it too much?” Porthos asks and Athos can feel Aramis shift away from him ever so slightly – and it is at once a relief and a disappointment. 

“I really must insist that – that I’m intruding,” Athos begins, props himself up on his elbow, still feeling Porthos’ hand on his hip and uncertain how to respond to it or understand it. 

“You’re not,” Aramis says, and there’s a hand on his shoulder – not pushing him down, but reassuring all the same, firm and smaller than the hand on his hip, but no less gentle. Aramis’ voice is oddly firm, no teasing lilt to be found. 

Athos swallows, feels the audible click in his dry throat. “How can I not be? You should be together – alone. I’m fine. I know this house. I’ll find a couch somewhere and…”

“Don’t be stupid,” Aramis sighs, and Athos can hear his frown in the darkness. 

“I’m not,” Athos says, voice going taut. “You two are dating. You should enjoy your time together. You’d hardly want someone as an interloper between you and Anne, for example.”

“Well—” Aramis begins.

But Porthos cuts in, “Athos… you need to relax. It’s fine.” 

“We’re actually quite fond of you,” Aramis says, and the teasing tone is back – light and playful, but with a slight edge to the words. 

“We wouldn’t invite you here if we didn’t want you here,” Porthos adds. 

Athos goes quiet, lips thinning out as he presses them together, trying to take a deep breath and actually process everything. He doesn’t know why he feels so out of his depth now, why this is making it all the worse. It’s their proximity, he decides. Porthos’ naked chest, tattooed and scarred over the years, the low slung of his sweatpants. It’s Aramis’ wild hair, smiling eyes, the teasing way his body presses up to him like it was made to be there. It’s pulling up too many thoughts, too many things he refuses to acknowledge. 

It’d be so much easier if they would just let him be. If they would just let him sleep. If he could close his eyes and pretend. 

“I don’t understand,” he says, because he doesn’t – and because he has no idea what else to say.

Porthos and Aramis go quiet. Athos closes his eyes, but can imagine that the two of them are looking at each other, having some kind of silent communication. The stillness between them all is too weighted to be a true silence. 

It turns out he was correct, because a moment later, Porthos speaks. 

“Look, we… actually want to talk to you,” Porthos says and Athos peers at him, then twists a little so he can look at Aramis. 

Aramis sits up a little and Athos frowns. Porthos is watching him, exactly where he’s still lying on his side, and neither say anything for a long moment while Athos just looks at the two of them. 

“About?”

“Good things, if you’ll stop being stubborn,” Aramis sighs out. He scoots to Athos’ side and wraps an arm around his shoulders. Somehow, it’s a comfort. 

“How am I stubborn?” he asks, somewhat rhetorical, his voice wooden. 

Porthos sighs out and sits up, too, and Athos thinks he looks at Aramis before he just says, blunt as ever, “We want you to date us.” 

Somehow, this isn’t quite what Athos expected.

“Darling, you could have put it a little more diplomatically,” Aramis chides. 

“Why be coy about it?” Porthos shrugs. “Athos knows something’s up.” 

Athos opens his mouth to speak, but ends up saying nothing. He’s in something of a stunned silence ever since the word _date_ left Porthos’ mouth – and he can’t even process it. Date _him_? When they have each other? 

Porthos continues, “We both have feelings for you and we want to date you. We want to know if you’re willing to give it a try, too. Aramis says you’re interested and he’s usually right about those kinds of things.” He trails off, and for the first time looks a bit why when he adds, “So… if there’s an interest...” 

“We like to think you’re rather fond of us,” Aramis agrees, picking up the words when Porthos falters. “You’re not terribly subtle about such things, although perhaps a little stiff and withdrawn at times. But we’re your friends, of course, and so why not try other things? Much more fun things. Porthos and I figured that out, didn’t we?” 

Athos blinks. Then blinks again. “You want to what?”

“Date you,” Porthos says again and Athos wants to think it’s a joke or that he’s helplessly flapping around in a post-wedding delirium, or – something. 

“You’re serious,” Athos says, voice dried out from his disbelief. 

“Of course,” Aramis says.

“We wouldn’t tease you about something like that.” Porthos is starting to sound earnest, like just the thought of an impossible is enough of a personal affront that he has to defend the two of them in Athos’ eyes. 

Athos is silent. The thought that Porthos and Aramis could want him is absurd. Porthos and Aramis, who spent years long before knowing him as best friends, who spent years in university and after university fooling around, who finally understood the depth of their feelings for one another only recently when Athos saw it coming from a mile away the very first _day_ he met them. It’s absurd. The idea that they should date someone else when they have each other is not so surprising, with Aramis’ long-standing relationship with Anne, and Porthos’ own on-again, off-again relationships. But the fact that it’s somehow _him_ they’ve landed on as a joint date leaves him feeling more than a little flabbergasted. Certainly for the relationships the two of them have – they don’t date the same person. 

“This,” Athos says, fumbling for something to say, “seems rather out of nowhere.”

And then both Porthos and Aramis laugh. Not at him, necessarily. Porthos’ laugh is loud and booming and beautiful – Athos has always thought so – his head tipping backward as he barks at the ceiling. Aramis is always more reserved in his delight, in comparison, but no less bright. He ducks his head, something akin to a giggle escaping him. 

“Believe it or not,” Porthos says, laughing and his smile a touch shy, “We’ve kind of been sitting on our hands about this.” 

“Which wasn’t my idea,” Aramis interrupts. “I’d have told you from the start but Porthos said you needed to be eased into it.” 

Porthos shrugs, and he looks so boyish in that moment – hopeful and smiling. 

And Athos stops and frowns and really thinks. It is out of nowhere. Except for the nights in university when they’d stretch out on the lawn behind the graduate building and stare at the stars and laugh like they were stupid and drunk, which they were. He remembers those dark nights after his divorce, where he avoided them, but they were there when he needed them – when he didn’t necessarily want them, but they were there all the same. Porthos with beer even though Athos hates beer, but would drink it anyway if only to reassure Porthos. Aramis with delicious, homemade food when his phone was starting to get worn with dialing the take-out number, when he actually managed to eat at all. Porthos and Aramis, even as an official couple, going out of their way to spend time with him, talk to him, check in on him, take him out for brunch or for a night on the town, or to just spend time together the three of them watching a movie, Athos always sandwiched between them. Porthos and Aramis, the Couple, always reaching out for Athos. 

“It’s been that way for a while,” Porthos says, quietly cutting into Athos’ thoughts – and he sounds nervous, uncertain now, and Athos realizes what his silence must seem like. Porthos clears his throat and Athos can envision the small smile that must be quirking up his mouth as he talks. “But we… I mean, we got together and it was great – you know. Well, yeah, of course you know. You know better than most how I feel about him. But – we just started missing you. It felt strange not to have you there with us.” 

“We can have a date or two, the three of us,” Aramis cuts in. “Casual, if you’d like. Nothing too much, too quickly.”

“We know how these things are for you,” Porthos clarifies. “We know you haven’t dated in a while – much less two people at once. We’d keep it simple.”

Simple and casual, Athos thinks, and can’t help but want to smile at the ridiculousness of the thought. Simple and Casual from the two men who declared they loved one another about five minutes into their first official date together, after basically dating each other for ten or more years before that point. Casual might work for Aramis in most cases and Simple might work for Porthos in others, but the two of them together – coupled up with him – hardly seems a Simple and Casual matter. 

But, really, what would he know about the entire thing? They’re right about his long dry spell, after all. There hasn’t been anyone after—

But he doesn’t think about her. 

They both sound hopeful, though, and Athos can’t help but think it’s a terrible idea. He has no qualms about what kind of man he is. He made peace with it long ago. Porthos and Aramis are far from perfect – but they certainly deserve better than his own baggage. 

He knows all this in theory and in reality he should reject it, if only for their own future happiness. Which is why for the life of him, he doesn’t know why he says, “What kind of dates?” 

“Whatever you’d like,” Porthos says. And he definitely sounds hopeful now. 

It is a terrible, horrible idea. Athos knows that completely. He isn’t an easy person to get along with, and honestly when he first met Porthos and Aramis, it took weeks for them to finally warm up to him and understand his prickly exterior wasn’t a feeling of superiority but, rather, his own inability to communicate – and truthfully, a lack of desire to communicate. 

“We could have it tomorrow,” Aramis says, and he’s _definitely_ hopeful, looking at him in the dark. “After everyone leaves here – let’s go get brunch. Or lunch?” He looks at Porthos, and then nods. “No, brunch. Breakfast food. You could get a mimosa. You like those.” 

“… I can’t promise that I’d be – worthwhile,” Athos begins, feels inadequate in expressing it. Aramis and Porthos are bright, sunny, ridiculous together. They’re inherently sexual. Teasing and flirting. Athos, in comparison, feels dry and wooden. A dim comparison to the two of them. 

At his words, though, Porthos and Aramis both snort. 

“Athos, please,” Aramis says, and while his tone is light, there is an underlying fervor to it. 

It’s Porthos who says, more gentle, “Give us more credit to know what we want – and let us decide what’s worthwhile. You’re our friend.” 

“We’ll go at your own pace,” Aramis offers, and Athos almost makes a joke about Aramis’ sacrificing nature. 

But Porthos continues, reaching out and touching Athos’ shoulder and squeezing, “Whatever you want and whatever you need – we’re willing to give it a try. We want to.” 

It is a terrible idea. Athos knows this. He knows it better than most – and he also knows that his two friends are stubborn, that they won’t accept his carefully constructed arguments. The thought of losing the two of them is terrifying. They have always been the better part of him. For all the challenges they’ve faced in their lives, they’ve both come out stronger and better for it. For all his own challenges, Athos has only remained dried and brittle – and he will never be anything other than lucky to have these two care about him even a fraction. 

He shakes a little in the night air, and not because of the draft running through the mansion. 

In the end, though—

Athos closes his eyes and sighs. “… Very well.” 

He isn’t sure what he expects the answer to his consent to be, but he’s at once surprised and resigned to the fact that both Porthos and Aramis are hugging him tight, wrapping him up in a tangle of limbs. And he thinks he could stay like this forever, honestly – and it’s nice to allow himself to realize that, yes, it’s an option. They both hug him for a long time, and he can feel the curve of Porthos’ smile against the side of his head where he’s pressed up, and he knows that he’s looking at Aramis – and they’re probably relieved and happy and thrilled and Athos doesn’t even remotely understand why. 

But, in the end, he’s happy. 

“Come on,” Porthos says, and pushes both Aramis and Athos back down. “To bed with the both of you.” 

His hand on his chest is both a comfort and a thrill that, until this moment, Athos hasn’t allowed himself to feel. He’s feeling overwhelmed again, untethered. It isn’t that Porthos and Aramis aren’t good friends of his – because they are – but he’s spent so long feeling distant, feeling disconnected in general. It was really through d’Artagnan’s friendship that he was ever able to truly open up to Porthos and Aramis after years of a casual friendship. He’s grateful for that much. Grateful that Porthos and Aramis, for all their loss and all their struggles in their life, can still love so deeply and fully – and he’s humbled in the face of it. Not just Porthos and Aramis as ‘Porthos and Aramis’, but as individual men – he’s always admired them for their ability to love, to let go, to grow, to struggle, to be strong. For all the things he’s learned in his life, Athos has never actually felt he knows how to move on. Has never actually felt that he could love or open himself up. 

That they keep tugging him along, regardless, is something he’s at once thankful for and terrified of. 

Like this, though, once it’s all out in the open, once he lets himself relax – it’s all incredibly comfortable. It doesn’t matter that it’s his old bed from a bygone time of his life, in a house he’d rather forget than revisit. Porthos is a furnace beside him, strong and solid beside him, and he curls into him despite himself – and feels Aramis curl up at his back. He should feel too warm, by all accounts. But, instead, he just feels safe. 

He imagines what it’d be like to kiss them in this moment – to roll onto his side and take Porthos’ mouth in his. Porthos would kiss him gentle and swift, murmur his name and cradle his jaw like he’s precious and worthwhile. Athos would shiver and melt into him. He could break the kiss and turn his head and kiss Aramis, who’d kiss him with a much more teasing smile to his lips, nibble at his lip and kiss him deeply, swiftly, leaving him breathless. 

Porthos’ arm is a steady reminder flung across his chest, weighing him down and keeping him anchored. There’s the dry brush of Aramis’ stubble against his shoulder where he nestles up at his side to consider, too, and it’s a warm kind of heat that curls up inside of him and leaves him feeling more comfortable than he ever thought possible. He falls asleep like that and sleeps better than he has in weeks – possibly months. 

When he wakes up the next morning, their positions have shifted slightly. He can still feel Aramis pressed up to his back, but he’s half on top of Porthos now, head pressed to the spot between chest and shoulder, the small comfortable dip there, and for someone so strong and muscular, he’s surprisingly comfortable, aside from the jab of his collarbone against his eye socket. He might be drooling. He hopes not. But he can at least understand what Aramis means when he calls Porthos a teddy bear. 

Like this, though, he can tell that both Porthos and Aramis are speaking to one another. He can feel the vibration of Aramis’ words running down his back where they’re pressed together, can hear the delightfully low hum of Porthos’ breath beneath his ear. When he blinks his eyes open, he can see the rise and fall of Porthos’ belly as he speaks, and there’s a slight softness there that’s both endearing and achingly human. 

They’re still talking, so Athos shifts. Doing so makes him acutely aware of the low-level headache he’s sporting – not a hangover, but a call for hair of the dog, if anything else. He ignores it in favor of saying, “Good morning.” 

He doesn’t let himself feel awkward when both Porthos and Aramis go quiet. 

“Morning,” Porthos says, and it sounds oddly neutral and for a moment Athos allows himself to fear – but when he lifts his head to squint at him, Porthos is smiling at him, dimples flashing, hair all mushed up. Aramis is smiling at him, too, eyes dark and warm in the morning light, head cradled in his palm of his hand where he sits up on his elbow beside Athos. 

“Did we wake you?” Aramis asks, and doesn’t seem totally bothered – possibly because now he’s blatantly checking Athos out in the proper light, and Athos can only imagine what a wreck his hair must seem. 

“It’s alright,” Athos says and feels like he’d actually do much better to just go dunk his head in the sink and be done with it. He needs coffee. Or that mimosa that Aramis mentioned before. “I should shower and get dressed.” 

“… We still on for brunch?” Porthos asks and Athos can hear how desperately he tries to sound neutral in that moment, and how hopeful he sounds instead. 

“I’m hoping that you have a place in mind,” Athos answers, voice dry to hide his own insecurity about such a thing. It’s happening and he should perhaps feel uncertain about it now that it’s morning and he’s sober – but instead, he finds himself looking forward to it, finds himself relieved that _they’re_ not taking it back. 

Porthos grins, and it’s wide and unrelenting and beautiful. “Aramis and I found this really nice place on our – was it our fifth? – yeah, fifth date. They have a killer Eggs Benedict.” 

“Sounds lovely,” Athos says, and slowly draws himself away from the both of them, climbing out of the bed with as much grace as he can muster, and makes his way towards the bathroom for that aforementioned shower. He dares to add, “I’m looking forward to it.”

He shuts the door, but not before he sees the twin looks of relief and happiness pass between Porthos and Aramis. 

Athos lets himself smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) for whatever reason! :D


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